


Just Another Case

by Neko_Kururu



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Investigation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 13:26:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neko_Kururu/pseuds/Neko_Kururu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fic originally from August 2011. Unbeta'ed.</p><p>Sherlock is on a case and John can only follow in exasperation...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Another Case

~*~

Rain pattered against the living room windows, but Sherlock barely acknowledged the event, his eyes fixed on the laptop in front of him. The room was dark and the bright screen cast strange lights and shadows on the man’s face. His focus never shifted when he heard the downstairs door open and close, followed by hurried footsteps and finally John’s entering of their flat. He had a large brown bag full of groceries in one arm, but the dark haired man did not move to help; John was used to it and did not even bother asking for assistance, even as he struggled out of his coat. He managed to kick off his shoes before finally going into the kitchen and placing the bag on the table, in between a clutter of books on one side and dirty dishes on the other –he supposed he should wash them today.

“Did you get what I asked for?” Suddenly asked Sherlock.

The doctor glanced at him, “Sorry but they were all out of formaldehyde at the supermarket.”

Sherlock finally turned from the screen to look at him, one eyebrow delicately arched, “You went to the supermarket?”

“Why, yes Sherlock.” John sighed, “I was sure I’d told you at least five times before leaving the flat.”

“Oh.” The other replied simply, then returned to his work.

John threw his hands up in the air dramatically before putting the groceries away. He did let out a startled gasp when he found a labelled jar with a dog’s brain floating in its embalming fluid; at least now he no longer wondered why Sherlock had asked him for formaldehyde. Quite frankly, when things like this happened, it was usually better not to ask.

~*~

The afternoon dragged on slowly. The sky had grown darker still and the rain had grown more fierce, tapping loudly against the windows whenever there was a burst of wind. Sherlock had moved with his laptop from the desk to the armchair, legs drawn up to his body, toes gripping the edge of the seat, fingers working rapidly on the keyboard. He would pause occasionally to read over what he’d written, then continue at rapid-fire pace. Meanwhile, John was reclining on the couch, a good book in hand and a blanket over his legs. Every once in a while, he would shoot a glance at the raven haired man, but he was so deeply focused on whatever he was doing that he did not notice. The doctor could only roll his eyes and continue reading. In any case, he was enjoying this rare, peaceful atmosphere; they were not running after someone, nor was anyone running after  _them_ , or shooting at them, or generally trying to hurt or kill them. There was no Lestrade to look confusedly at them, or Anderson to make snide remarks, or Mycroft to insinuate things and make veiled threats. It was just the two of them, as strange a pair as they made.

John sighed contentedly and sank lower down on the couch, the steady sound of water hitting glass panes and fingers typing quickly lulling him into a sense of serenity.

~*~

The doctor awoke with a start and realized, as he removed his abandoned book from his face, that he had solidly dozed off. He checked around the room but Sherlock had disappeared; the laptop sat now where he had been, lid closed but not turned off. Glancing at his watch, he noted he had only been out for an hour but, knowing his flatmate, anything could have happened in that time span. Next, he checked his phone and was a little surprised to find no messages –at least, none from Sherlock asking him to rush across town because of something or other. After a while, John decided to get up and make some tea; rising from the couch, he stretched and grunted quietly when several joints popped loudly, then walked to the kitchen to set up the kettle. Once that was done he looked at the table, unamazed to still find it in disarray. With a deep sigh, he resigned himself to the task of cleaning up a bit while he waited for the water to boil.

~*~

_Meet me in Kensington Gardens. SH_

John stared at the text for a good minute or so before deciding to reply.

_Why? Is someone dead? JW_

His phone beeped a few seconds later.

_Not yet. SH_

John’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline.

~*~

“Is this your idea of a joke?”

Sherlock looked at his annoyed flatmate as he stomped his way to him; the dark haired man had a curve to his lips and a mischievous twinkle in his eye, and even his voice contained a slight hint of delight at the fact that John had actually come to him.

“Don’t worry, I won’t make a habit of it.” He replied.

Thankfully, the rain had relented to a mere misty drizzle, but the doctor still grumbled at being forced out of the apartment. After a moment he turned to the taller man, crossed his arms and said, “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Well, why did you make me leave the warmth and dryness of our flat?”

Sherlock shrugged, “I just needed someone to talk to.”

John’s eyes went wide. He opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again, “You couldn’t just… call me?” He finally said in disbelief.

The other just smiled, as though that were a sufficient answer. It wasn’t, but John was too tired to argue. With a defeated sigh, he walked in pace with his flatmate as they began strolling along the path.

“I’m working on a new case.” Sherlock began.

“I’ve noticed.”

“Yes, well, I wasn’t very interested at first but then something caught my eye.”

“Of course.”

“So I began doing a little research. Unfortunately, I’m…” He trailed off and made a vague hand gesture before suddenly asking, “How familiar are you with child rearing?”

The doctor almost stumbled.

“How familiar- with-” He stuttered before asking, “Excuse me, what?”

“Child rearing.” Sherlock repeated simply.

Sherlock stopped walking when he realized the other had stopped a few steps back, staring at him as though he had grown another head; the dark haired man rolled his eyes and huffed in faint annoyance.

“Whatever it is you think I’ve done, it’s false and outlandish. I ask simply because it’s relating to the case.”

A short pause, then: “Oh.”

Sherlock gave him a look before he began strolling again. John jogged after him, “Okay, child rearing. Yes, I’m familiar with the methods involved, both as a professional and as, uh, informed citizen?” He finished lamely.

He had wanted to say he had firsthand experience, but that was not true: he meant his parents’ rearing of him, that his knowledge was based on what they had done for and with him. Babysitting as a teenager hardly counted.

The taller man missed his internal dialogue and simply continued, “Grand. Now, how would you go about dealing with an unruly child who clearly displays sociopathic tendencies and a fondness for disappearing in mysterious ways?”

Again, the doctor almost stumbled.

“Good god Sherlock! What kind of case have you taken up now?” He exclaimed, exasperation evident in his voice.

~*~

Two days later, John had his answer as to ‘what kind of case’ Sherlock had found.

He glared at the man, who continued to ignore him, then glanced back at the twelve year-old boy sitting on the couch in their living room; he did this several times before he finally spoke.

“You know, every time I think I’ve finally come to understand you, you turn around and do…” He gestured in the boy’s direction, “This.”

“M’name’s Henry.” Piped up the boy.

The doctor looked at him and sighed, “Yes, sorry.” Then added, “Would you like a cup of tea?”

The boy nodded so John went into the kitchen to set the kettle up but not before grabbing Sherlock at the elbow and dragging him into the next room with him. He was annoyed by how gleeful the dark haired man looked.

“What are you planning?” He hissed as he filled the small appliance with water in the sink.

“Whatever do you mean?” The other smirked.

“Why is that boy here? Why have you brought him  _here_? Sherlock,  _what_  are you playing at?”

The taller man stood studying him quietly and without answering, his smile still lurking at the corners of his mouth; John put down the kettle on the counter with a little too much force but otherwise relented from shouting at him. They had a guest, after all.

“I am just  _playing_ the good Samaritan.” Sherlock finally told him all too smugly.

“No. No, you- You’re not allowed to call yourself that.” The doctor admonished firmly, “Everything you do is the farthest thing from-”

He cut himself off to take a deep breath and calm down.

“Sherlock, listen to me. Whatever it is you are planning to do, or not do, I will not stand by and let a child come to harm.” He spoke in a low and dangerous tone.

The dark haired man actually seemed surprised –and perhaps a little hurt– this time. The change in expression happened so quickly, the doctor had almost missed it.

“Do you think so lowly of me?” Sherlock asked quietly.

John stared at him and retorted before he could stop himself, “Are you an idiot?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose up almost comically.

Unfortunately –or perhaps fortunately– whatever it was that he would have replied was lost when the kettle hissed and whistled loudly, shattering the tension between them.

“Water’s ready.” The doctor said simply.

~*~

Over the span of the next three days, the two men took turns watching over the boy while continuing their work on the investigation. After the “tea incident”, Sherlock finally filled John in on the details of the case and the doctor was horrified to find out the boy was not a troubled child as everyone assumed but had been the victim of not one, but two kidnappings in the past few months. Somehow, he had managed to escape both times. His parents, however, had thought he was just being difficult by running away from home which, when John found out about it, sent him into a rather long rant about irresponsible parents and child neglect laws before he continued on about psychological childhood traumas. Though he tried to hide it out of courtesy, Sherlock was rather amused by it all.

One thing he noted, however, was that having the boy around the flat brought out John’s nurturing nature, which he wasted no time in pointing out to the good doctor –in that brutally direct and honest manner of his, of course. Unsurprisingly, he was promptly shooed out of the apartment by his flushed flatmate.

“John.”

The doctor was in the kitchen when Sherlock called his name. He was showing Henry how make pasta –tonight’s dinner– while a simple tomato sauce simmered nearby. While John had heard the other call him, he pointedly ignored him. He smiled instead at the boy when he asked him how he had learned to cook so well.

“I’ve had a lot of practice.” John told him jokingly.

From his spot on the armchair, the dark haired man rolled his eyes.

He was typing away on his laptop, as was his usual, when he suddenly froze; his latest search finally brought out the desired results. With one fluid motion he snapped the lid shut and bolted out of the seat, startling the two in the kitchen. Just as quick, he hopped into his shoes, grabbed his coat from the couch and was out the door and down the stairs before the doctor could even ask where he was going –and if he was going to eat at all.

John and Henry exchanged glances.

“His loss.” The doctor shrugged.

~*~

John had to admit that he was sad to see the boy go; he had grown attached to him, and had even made living with Sherlock more bearable. The kidnapper had been caught, thanks to the consulting detective’s efforts, but in a _strange turn of events_ , child services found out about Henry’s situation and had stepped in, calling upon the boy’s uncles to take custody of him until a proper investigation could be launched for the neglect he suffered under his parents’ care. The doctor was happy when he found out Henry would be properly cared for now, however he had the creeping suspicion that Sherlock had been the one to call them in.

Once they had filed all the paperwork –or rather, signed a few forms before pushing the rest onto Lestrade– they returned to their flat. John waited until Sherlock flopped onto the couch, stretching out against the cushions, before he rounded on him, arms crossed and feet firmly planted in the carpet.

“I know it was you.” He told him directly.

The dark haired man merely glanced at him, one eyebrow gracefully arched questioningly.

“You called in child services. I know it was you.” John clarified, then added, “Now the question is: why?”

“Why?” Repeated the other.

“Yes, why? Why go through the effort? The case was solved, you were rid of the boy-”

Sherlock suddenly interrupted him in an annoyed tone, “I wasn’t-”

He cut himself off, as though changing his mind about what he was about to say. It was John’s turn now to raise an eyebrow questioningly. When Sherlock hesitated –which was very unlike him– he sat down on the edge of the couch, just beside the man’s hip, and waited for him to explain.

The taller man sighed before he began again more calmly, “I wasn’t going to let the boy return to his parents if it meant putting him at risk of another kidnapping and negating my good work.”

He glanced at the doctor as though gauging for his reaction, then looked down, suddenly more interested in his fingers. John stared at him for a long while before suddenly breaking out a large smile; Sherlock immediately grew suspicious.

“Oh my god.” John exclaimed, clapping his hands together and looking excited.

The other squirmed uncomfortably, “What?”

“Oh my god.” John said again, his smile widening into a grin.

Sherlock frowned at him.

“I can’t believe it.” The doctor said finally, though he was speaking to the room rather than his flatmate, “For the first time, the great Sherlock Holmes has allowed himself to care about another human being.”

The dark haired man propped himself up on his elbows to properly glare at the other, “That is untrue.”

“Oh please, don’t try to deny it.” Snorted John, “You cared about Henry. You let the little bugger slip past your defenses and he warmed your icy heart but now you don’t want to acknow-”

“That’s not what I meant!” The other snapped, sitting up.

The doctor stared at him in surprise before annoyance rose up.

“Then what, pray tell, has got you all in a flutter-”

Before he could finish his sentence, Sherlock suddenly reached out and pulled him closer by the back of his neck, pressing his lips against his in an awkward kiss. When he pulled back a few seconds later, John could feel his mouth tingle at the contact. He looked up into the other’s eyes, shocked and confused and perhaps a little curious.

The taller man gazed straight at him as he spoke, voice low and silky, “What I meant, John, is that it’s not the first time I allowed myself to care about another human being.” He smirked as he quoted, “It’s not the first time I let a  _little bugger_  slip past my defenses to let him warm my  _icy heart_.”

The doctor could only stare, at a complete loss for words. Meanwhile Sherlock grew amused, albeit also a little exasperated, at his inability to articulate.

“I’ll take the fact that you haven’t pulled back or hit me as you returning the sentiment.” He said simply.

Before John could stop the flush rising to his face or finally formulate an answer, Sherlock dipped in and stole another kiss then fluidly got up from the couch and began climbing the stairs. He stopped halfway upstairs, exchanged glances with his once more tongue-tied flatmate, then let out a soft, giddy sort of laugh that John had never heard before as he climbed the rest of the way up.

After a while, the good doctor could only shake his head, wondering when his life had become so strange.

 

**Author's Note:**

> asdfghjkl what is this fluff I can’t believe I wrote this I don’t even-


End file.
